Death Dwarves and Damsels in Shining Armor
by R. Renfield
Summary: Two lonely exiles. Jonathan and Spike worship from afar.


"Death Dwarves and Damsels in Shining Armor" by R. Renfield  
  
Codes: R for naughty words.   
  
Notes:  
  
I absolutely suck at writing Spike. Suggestions are begged for.  
  
Set late season 5, after "Intervention." Spoilers for ... hell, season 7 is airing now, so if you don't want to get spoiled for the first five years, why are you reading fanfic?  
  
And posted just because I know how much y'all love a work in progress... I'm thoroughly stymied and seeking inspiration. Any thoughts or criticisms more than welcome.  
  
***  
  
Vampires aren't supposed to roam the streets in this part of town. Though I guess the extreme badasses of the vampire world roam wherever they damn well please. Even if that happens to be barely twenty feet from the Slayer's house, leaning against the tree in her front yard like they own the place. Generally speaking, one would also suppose that the Slayer would have something to say about it. Yet the lights are on, and still, no Buffy. More than slightly worrisome.   
  
Especially since he's seen me already.  
  
What the *fuck* is Spike doing in her front yard?  
  
If I cross the street he'll know I'm already intimidated and come over to gloat before he kills me. If I run, he'll catch me. If I keep going, maybe he'll just ignore me. For god's sake, I'm the single most ignore-able person in Sunnydale.  
  
So far so good. Hands stuffed in pockets. Look at your feet. Looking at my feet. Totally oblivious to the ruthless bloodsucker ten feet away. What was that clicking noise? A lighter. Must be. Because he wasn't cool enough to start with, of course.   
  
Looking at my feet. Seeing my feet... slow down? The hell?   
  
Dude, you are *not* going to turn around and ask Spike -- the terror of parent-teacher night, the scariest thing to avoid becoming dusty at the hands of Buffy Summers, the embodiment of cool and dangerous and everything else that you're not and, let's face it, never will be -- you are not seriously thinking about turning around and asking Spike what he's doing in Buffy's front yard.  
  
"You're Spike, right?"  
  
I've always daydreamed about being a hero. They're really cheesy daydreams, I know. Me going all Dudley Do-Right against the latest baddie in town (and, when I'm not in on who the latest bad guy is, the old standby is -- guess who -- our very own Spike). The whole point, though, is to cut the ropes tying Sweet Buffy to the railroad tracks, and have her look up at me (shut up) with those huge blue eyes... Sometimes the bad guy has neutralized her Slayer-strength with something like kryptonite, and they need a spell to counteract it. Or she's locked in some secret government lab and they have to break into the computer system to get her out. Dumb clichZÿs, I know, but they give me a chance to be a hero. Because I overhear them talking about it at school or something and volunteer to help, and this time Willow Rosenberg doesn't have all the answers, and they need... me. Anyway, I always wind up saving Buffy. Like she's always saved me. I can hear her voice as she says my name -- like she's surprised but still really glad to see me. She says it like we're friends. And she means it.   
  
And sometimes, after me and Buffy and her gang take out the bad guys, they talk about going out somewhere to celebrate, and they don't even have to tell me I can come along, because I know that they want me there. And sometimes I head home by myself, only Buffy catches up with me and tells me how grateful she is... I mean, sometimes she's *really* grateful. But sometimes all she has to do is smile at me, like she did at Riley Finn, and say something like, "Thanks, Jonathan. That was pretty amazing."   
  
And what I'm about to do isn't going to make me a hero. Won't even make me a martyr. It will just make me *incredibly stupid.* And more than likely, Buffy will hear something, or sense it (I don't even know if she can do that), and come out here, and have to save me. Again.  
  
And he's just staring at me, his brow furrowed, like he's trying to figure out if I said something or just, you know, squealed in terror. Which, for all I know, I did.  
  
"Spike. I remember you from parent-teacher night. At the high school. About four years ago."  
  
I suddenly wonder if he remembers me from that whole coolness spell thing last year. I mean, no one was supposed to remember -- hell, *I* can't remember most of it, though I'm pretty sure I ran into him at some point -- but who knows if the rules are different for things demonic. This could be bad.   
  
"Yeah." He takes the cigarette from his mouth and looks over at Buffy's house. I've been dismissed, I realize. He's granted me clemency, and is giving me a chance to get away with my skin intact, because... well, because he figures I don't matter enough to bother with.  
  
"What are you doing in Buffy's front yard? Seems pretty suicidal. I don't remember her being a big fan of... "  
  
I trail off as he straightens, stands, puts a hand in his hip pocket casually, flicking ash from his cigarette with the other, and regards me with vague curiousity.   
  
"Huh. That night at the high school. All those juicy little kiddies and their mummies and daddies packed in like a buffet. Some night. Not a bad body count, though we didn't get what we were after." He cocks his head. "What, we get someone of yours? Still got your knickers in a twist over it?"  
  
"No." He seems to be in a pretty rational mood. Or maybe he's eaten recently. "It just strikes me as a bad idea, hanging out right under the Slayer's nose..." The bit about Buffy being the Slayer is one of the few things I learned as SuperJonathan that stuck. Besides, she was the one who killed the demon that time around too (I'm pretty sure), so even then, when I was the center of the universe, the whole Chosen-One-Slayer-Destiny deal was pretty important. More important. Than me.  
  
I've gotten his attention now. He's starting to glare. I've got to be completely insane.   
  
"I'd just think that you'd want to leave Buffy and her sister alone."  
  
"What, the Slayer's sending her Death Dwarves after me now?"  
  
My hands hurt. Right, that would be because my fists are clenched so tight that my fingernails are digging into my palms. And it's not just terror now, there's also a comforting anger. Which makes me feel no less terrified, but at least somewhat less stupid, like this isn't about being a hero anymore, it's about me being pissed the fuck off. I have to take this from ... well, everybody. But I'll be damned if I'll take it from Spike -- let him kill me, or not, but let him just do it then, and save his insults for some other hapless victim. I glare right back at him, and try not to think about how ridiculous I must look. Short and ridiculous. At the moment, it doesn't matter.   
  
And then he's not glaring anymore. It's hard to tell what the difference is, exactly, but something in his face relaxes, like the vampire is going into retreat and the human taking charge. It's weird to think of Spike ever being human, much less still having any humanity in him, but the way he glances back at the house this time makes me think that it must be there.   
  
"Relax, Frodo. Goldilocks and the little bit got nothing to fear from me."  
  
"Then what are you doing --"  
  
"What's it look like? Standing guard. She's on patrol." I don't need to ask who "she" is. "Left her little sis with the lover-wiccans." He settles back against the tree again, and gives me a sidelong look, as if challenging me to question him.   
  
So I do. I feel reckless now, like I've won some kind of acceptance from him. I feel, weirdly, a little like I did under that super-spell. "Since when do vampires stand guard for Buffy Summers?"  
  
"They don't. I do." He sighs. "Daft as it sounds, I'm playing her side these nights. It's quite a quaint tale, really. Government conspiracies and behavior-modification implants in -- in the skulls of the unsuspecting citizenry."  
  
I sidle closer. Well, I try to sidle. Maybe it's more like a meander. Or even a scurry. "Huh." Cross my arms, casual-like. "I think that was an X-Files episode." He looks unimpressed.   
  
"Must be a hell of a story."   
  
Smoking reflectively in the shadows. "What are you after, lad?"  
  
I'm not really afraid of him, now. Could be again any second, but right now he's got this almost-amiable Han Solo vibe going, and I feel a little like Luke Skywalker, trying to talk tough without sounding like a rube.   
  
(And you remember who gets the girl in this scenario, right, lad?)  
  
"Wanted to make sure you didn't have some kind of... you know... designs on Buffy." He raises an eyebrow. Do you suppose a princess and a guy like me...? No. NO. He's a vampire, for god's sake. She's the Vampire Slayer.   
  
"Designs of what sort, exactly?"  
  
Damn. "Any kind."  
  
Was that a smirk? "Can't promise that, mate." Mate. That's a step up from "lad," isn't it? And, by the way, damn. Again.  
  
"Just... you won't hurt her." Okay, yeah, that was pathetic. I straighten up, tall as I can get. "I mean, you should leave her alone." Not much better. Just snivel, why don't you.  
  
That's a smile, definitely. A rueful grin, even. "Bit hot under the collar there, are you? Huh. Summers' been known to have that effect. Like it or not." He looks away. Throws his cigarette stub to the ground, fishes the carton out of a coat pocket, taps out another one, carton back in the pocket, find the lighter. Light up. How is it that I could do exactly the same thing -- it's not like I haven't memorized the move -- and look like a complete dipwad?   
  
There's a reason why it's Han Solo who gets the girl. Maybe it's not so hard to imagine, Buffy and Spike -- that is, if he's crossed back over from the Dark Side and is fighting with the rebels. What princess doesn't love a bad-boy-gone-good? Especially if she's the agent and the motivation for reform.   
  
Motivation for reform? Hot under the collar, like it or not? Hang on a minute... "Yeah, I know what you mean. Those ... big blue eyes. How they make you want to be her knight in shining armor." His eyes drift past me as a talk. The smile falls, and his hands drop to his sides. "Even though she obviously doesn't need one."  
  
There's something tight in his voice. I think he's forgotten that I'm even here. "The way she fights, the way she kills... hungry-like. Like she craves it, needs it."  
  
"The way she moves... like nothing can ever touch her. Nothing can ever hurt her. Nothing will ever scare her."  
  
"The way she glows when she's angry, like she's gonna make sparks fly, start fire with her eyes... god, the way she *burns*..." He's staring at the house, now, oblivious to my presence, forgotten cigarette smoldering between slack fingers.  
  
"I hear you. I mean... how could you *not* worship her?"  
  
Proximity alarms go off, and I can't help but cringe. I've gotten awfully close to a nerve, there, and the vampiric nervous system isn't known for its stability to begin with. His gaze snaps back to m and he shoots me a look of pure venom. That's brilliant. Figure out what subject will completely piss him off, and then produce it like a cat bringing home a dead bird. For a second, I think I'm about to be dinner.   
  
But for some reason, after that second, the look dilutes into resentment. Then into resignation. Maybe I can still maneuver this a little...  
  
"I mean, that's probably not so true with vampires. The Slayer thing, and all." He relaxes. Stand down to yellow alert.   
  
"Slayer's a funny thing," he muses, eyes drawn back to the house. He's going to wax philosophical. This is a good sign. "Only really herself out here, in the night. Only really alive when she kills. She's one of us." Hm. Maybe not such a good sign. "She belongs in the darkness."  
  
"If she's one of you," I venture, "why is she your enemy?"  
  
He blinks, slowly, and for a second I wonder how old he is -- right at this moment, he seems ancient. "Longs for the light. Looks to the light for hope, and joy, and peace. And thinks there's innocence there, too. Slayer always thinks there's innocents, need protecting. Need her. She's got this -- this love -- for innocents. Believes in them so much she can almost make them real. No such thing, though." His hooded eyes flicker towards me, then deliberately away. "But she protects all the same, lives to protect. Not really alive, though, in the light. Can't be what she is there... but doesn't want to be what she is anyway." He closes his eyes, now, and I wonder if that could be regret in his voice. "Who would?"  
  
Before my self-preservation instinct kicks in, the words pop out: "Who wouldn't?"  
  
He turns back to me, quizzical, but not as angry as I would've thought. Not angry at all, really. But more than vaguely curious, now.  
  
"I mean, who doesn't want her, or want to be her? In high school, everybody who liked her, or hated her, it was because they all knew that she had something they didn't, something ... beyond us all. Even when we didn't know what, or why. She was just... she was Buffy Summers. Who didn't wonder who -- what -- she really was? Wanted to just... get under her skin."  
  
His eyes narrow. Maybe getting Buffy's skin involved isn't a good idea.   
  
"I mean, she's ... beyond," I hurry on, not quite able to shut up even as it occurs to me that this is yet another subject that might get me killed. "She always was. Beyond me, obviously, but all of them too, working at something that they couldn't possibly be a part of. Yeah, she chose Willow, and Xander Harris, and that guitarist from the Bronze, and, god help me, Cordelia... and why them, I can't begin to understand, and neither could anybody else... See what I mean?  
  
"I mean, maybe that's all a hopeless rationalization of the fact that... that I was always ... beneath her notice."  
  
"Beneath her." He takes an endless drag on his cigarette -- he's got a staggering lung capacity, maybe a benefit of not needing to breathe? -- then throws it with unsettling force at the ground. "It's a cozy little society, all us poor idiots that spend our nights looking up at..." His jaw clenches as rage momentarily distorts his features, and I dig my fingernails into my palms and manage not to flinch. His face stays human, though, and the violent impulse seems to pass with a frustrated kick towards an unoffending tree root. "You've got company then, Frodo. Granted, not many's can say they're beneath her so literally."   
  
Relieved, I elect to ignore the ribbing (fairly good-natured kidding from Spike is probably par for the course, and I think I'll only push my luck so far), and venture, "It makes it easier to deal, you know, knowing that it's not... it's everybody. 'Cause I can live with being beneath her if it's not ... it's not me."   
  
***  
  
Note: The term "death dwarf" was coined by Earl Mac Rauch in bThe Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension/b. No offense to anyone is intended by its use here. 


End file.
